by Lee Jackson
Atcho studied Sofia’s face and saw only sincerity. “Why tell me this now?”
“For two reasons, Atcho. First, to let you know you have friends who care about you, and would help if you’d let them.” She hesitated, and then looked steadily into his face. “And, because I love you more than I ever thought possible. I want your suffering to end.”
Atcho stood unmoving. “Did you really look for me in Havana?” he asked in a low voice.
Nodding, Sofia smiled. “Some refugees saw you leave with several other men for the Peruvian embassy. When I heard about the shooting and your disappearance, I didn’t know if you’d gone into the embassy and stayed, or if you’d been shot. When you came out of Cuba six months later, I had been transferred to Switzerland. I know there was press coverage of your arrival in Miami, but I didn’t see it in Geneva. Since your real name was used in news reports, and I knew you as Manuel Lezcano, I wouldn’t have known that was you anyway. Until someone contacted me about the reception, I thought you were completely gone from my life.”
Atcho had regained outward calm, and, as he regarded Sofia, warmth spread through him. “How did they find you?”
“Several refugees remembered me. Some had sent thank-you notes. When the reception was planned, the organizers wanted to invite anyone who had been part of your past in Cuba. I wasn’t hard to find.”
Atcho thought a moment. “Whose idea was it to have the reception?”
“The guy you call Burly put it together. He became quite fond of you in Jaguey Grande. Somehow, he learned that the president would present you to the nation. Burly keeps in contact with his old friends in the CIA. He thought that people who fought beside you might like to honor you as well. He was right. Everyone who knew you in Cuba was touched by your dedication and courage, and wanted to be there that night. I saw you on television during the president’s address. Nothing could have kept me from that reception.” She stood and embraced him. Soft lights played over her ivory skin and long, dark hair. She caressed his lips with her own. “I adore you,” she murmured.
Atcho stood rooted to the floor while memories and fears of the past, and visions of a desolate future whirled through his mind. He caught a fleeting image of a dark figure in the moonlight grinning over Sofia’s limp body.
She put her arms around his neck and pressed gently against him. “Kiss me, Atcho.”
His resistance melted as, urgently, he drew her to him. “I love you,” he whispered. The instant the words passed his lips, the pain and stress of years rolled away. One second later, they rolled back with double their ferocity. The insistent warning sounded again in his mind. Deliberately, he closed it out. I am not going to be imprisoned forever!
They lingered long into the night, sipping wine and dancing to soft music. For the first time since before his wife died, Atcho felt truly happy. In the early morning hours, her eyes filled with desire, Sofia took Atcho’s hand and pulled him towards the bedroom.
Atcho hesitated. Sofia touched his face and looked steadily into his eyes. “Darling, I still don’t know what’s hurting you. You don’t have to tell me, but there’s no need to be afraid of me, or for me. I love you with all my heart, but if you disappear from my life tomorrow, well … ” She paused. “I’ll feel terrible loss, but I’ll live. Meanwhile, please don’t let anything take this night away from us.”
Hours later, when they fell asleep, Sofia lay next to Atcho in a tender embrace.
36
Atcho’s eyes blinked open. Moonlight streamed through the bedroom window across Sofia’s sleeping form. His muscles tensed as he heard again the warning buzz in his mind. He pushed the sheets away, and sat up. Next to him, Sofia stirred.
He slid out of bed, crossed to the window and stared out into the night. Had he been duped again? Behind him, Sofia stirred softly. Atcho glanced at her, and then began to dress.
“Atcho?” Sofia called. He made no reply. “Atcho, what are you doing?”
Atcho whirled around. “Who are you?” he snarled.
“What?” Sofia was still half asleep.
“I asked who are you?”
“What do you mean?” Distress and fear tinged her voice.
“I want to know who you are,” Atcho growled. “Whom do you work for? The CIA? The FBI? Army intelligence?”
“Atcho, what are you talking about? I work for the State Department. You know that!”
“Well Miss State Department, I have a few questions for you.” He flipped on the light and glared at her. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, pulled the sheets around her, and stared at him.
“How did you know about that picture?” There was menace in his tone. Stunned, Sofia did not answer. She just stared in disbelief.
“How did you know about the picture of Isabel? I never told anyone about it. Juan is dead. Clary knew what it was, but he didn’t actually handle it, and no one else ever saw it. How do you know about it?”
“Actually, quite a few people know about it,” she answered quietly. “I’ve heard your story in several places.” She stood and reached for her robe.
“I hope you can concoct a better line than that,” Atcho said sarcastically. “Or your superiors might refer you for remedial training.”
“That’s the truth,” Sofia interjected angrily. “What do you think everyone was talking about at the reception? If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought someone had invented a Cuban Davy Crockett. There’s the story of the firefight and how you killed a lieutenant with a knife, then faced a Russian officer. Then there’s one about stealing a tank and hightailing through the swamps with it.”
Her sarcasm was beginning to match Atcho’s. “I almost forgot. You had to hitchhike through enemy lines to the battle, because you were off trying to rescue your daughter from kidnappers when the invasion began. And, you single-handedly defeated a squad of soldiers. And let’s not forget about the attempted escape – which actually succeeded because one guy got out and spread the word about the Isle of Pines!” She tapped her foot while tightening a cloth belt about her. “Shall I go on? There are stories I’ll bet even you haven’t heard.” She stopped as she saw his expression change from anger to chagrin. “Atcho, separating truth from fantasy in your past is not difficult. But there is a part that puzzles everyone. I think it explains your strange behavior.” She scrutinized his face. “Why did you stay in prison under an alias all that time? You might have been released years earlier, except for that.”
He was silent, bewildered. Sofia crossed to him, put her arms around his neck and kissed him lightly on the forehead. “As for your original question, I think Burly told me about Isabel’s photograph. Didn’t you and Juan spend a lot of time with him?” Shamefaced, Atcho nodded.
“Maybe Juan told Burly about it. You’ve been the hot topic of more than one conversation.” She pulled his face close to her own. “Come back to bed, and let’s get some sleep.”
Atcho shook his head. “No,” he said sadly. “I’d better leave.”
Sofia jerked her head. “Why? This doesn’t change anything. I knew a long time ago that something was wrong. I love you, Atcho. Does that mean anything to you?”
Atcho nodded. “Too much,” he replied, while tucking in his shirt. “That’s why I can’t stay.”
“Atcho, I want to tell you something.” Sofia crossed to the bed and sat down. “I loved my late husband with all my heart.” Atcho raised his head. “He was like you in many ways. I told you that he was killed in a black operation.” Atcho nodded. “I didn’t tell you that for pity, but because I want you to know that I understand danger, and sacrifice.” She looked into his eyes. “You’ve confirmed that something is terribly wrong. Won’t you please let me help?”
Atcho felt like his heart was about to be ripped from his chest. He sat next to her on the bed and embraced her gently, and then kissed her cheek. “I’m sorry. I can’t. I’d better go.” He stood and buttoned his shirt.
Tears ran down Sofia’s cheeks. “Will I see you agai
n?”
“I think not.”
As he turned toward the door, Sofia choked back sobs, and clutched his sleeve, but there was a determined look in her eye. “Atcho, I’ll be here if you need me, and I’m not someone who sits around. I’ve loved you for a very long time.”
PART XII
37
An hour later, sitting in his own apartment, Atcho cursed himself again and again for being a fool, and for hurting Sofia. You’ve been so caught up in yourself; you’ve failed to think about problems of others close to you. He thought about the last thing Sofia had said. What did she mean when she said ‘I’m not someone who sits around’?
He was tired from lack of sleep, and his emotions churned. He tried to drive thoughts from his mind, but they kept intruding. When Sofia had said he was an open book, she approached the truth. In a matter of weeks, she observed the same discrepancies in his story and arrived at the same conclusions as Isabel. He wondered how many others had also done so. Realizing the implications, he cursed. Time was running out. I’ve got to go on the offensive.
But how?
Suddenly, he sat up. He reviewed again the events and conversations of the past few months. Then, he walked through darkness to his desk in the next room and turned on a light. Scanning his personal phone directory, he located the entries for Burly and Rafael that he had taken from the business cards they had given him at the reception. After memorizing the numbers, he tore the page into little pieces, took them to the bathroom, and flushed them. Then he went to bed.
At six in the morning, he descended to the street for his regular jaunt. Under a full-length running suit, he wore a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Because he believed he was often being watched, he had been religious about maintaining an exercise schedule. He had learned at the camp outside of Moscow that being careful about establishing behavior patterns allowed freedom of movement without raising suspicion. By mixing up routine and varied habits, he could find pockets of time during which he could hide and accomplish things in plain sight. At least that training wasn’t a total waste on me. He ran three to five miles on most days, but varied the route so that he never ran the same course twice in a row.
Over the years, he had noted wide expanses of open ground that allowed him to be observed from a distance. He also knew where congestion hid him from view. Now he used this knowledge to check for followers. He saw none, but kept up his guard. Starting at a fast pace, he headed toward an area where commuters waited for buses.
With as little disturbance as possible, he jogged through the crowds. He regarded them curiously, as if observing specimens. These were ordinary people, perhaps living humdrum lives – and knew nothing of international intrigue. Most of them were considerably less wealthy than he, yet he envied them for their predictability.
Above the sounds of morning rush hour, his mind flashed back to the soccer game pictured in his yearbook, and he imagined the spectators urging him downfield. “Atcho! Atcho!” they had cried, and he had responded with fierce determination. Sweat had flown from his face and arms as he ran over the grassy playing field, driving the ball toward the goal.
How differently his future had appeared then. He had been nearing graduation, preparing to go home to marry beautiful Isabel, for whom their daughter had been named. His whole ambition then had been to help his father oversee their beloved sugar plantation.
A blaring car-horn returned Atcho to the present, and reminded him of the reality of his past. He looked around. Certain that no one pursued, he entered a public rest room, removed his sweat suit and hid it under a sink, and then stretched a sweatband over his head and put on a pair of sunglasses. Then, clad in shorts and a T-shirt, he took to the streets and ran toward the Potomac River, where many people went for early morning exercise. He knew of several hotels and cafes along the bank where public phone booths could be used with small probability of being seen. He found one that appeared safe and ducked into it.
Knowing full well that he might be jeopardizing Isabel’s life along with Bob’s and his expected grandchild’s, he dropped a quarter into the slot and dialed Burly’s number. His heart pounded. The phone rang four times.
“Come on!” he muttered anxiously on the fifth ring.
He was about to hang up on the sixth when he heard a sleepy voice. “Hello?”
“Burly! It’s me, Atcho.”
“I know,” Burly chuckled sleepily. “No one else calls me Burly.”
“Listen,” Atcho interrupted urgently. “I don’t have much time. You told me once that if I ever needed help, to let you know. Remember?”
“Of course I remember. What’s wrong?”
“I can’t say. Please trust me, but don’t bring in the CIA. Do you understand? No CIA, or FBI or anybody else.”
“I hear you. Can you tell me anything?”
“No. There’s an informant, and I don’t know who it is. Isabel could lose her life.”
Burly whistled into the phone. “Is that still going on?”
“Don’t ask. Will you help?”
“Of course, Atcho. But I’m an old man now, and retired. What can I do?”
Atcho felt a surge of relief. “Do you remember Rafael from the reception?”
“I should say so! I trained him in Guatemala.”
“Good. Here’s his number.” He said it slowly, giving Burly a chance to write it down. “Tell him to assemble and arm a platoon of the best men he knows. They must be discreet. And no mercenaries! We need dedicated, trustworthy men to train in one of those survival camps in Florida. They should be ready as quickly as possible.
“Also, help him establish a credible false identity in a mid-western city. He should initiate a real estate transaction with me, using the alias. That way we’ll have legitimate reason to correspond. But he cannot try to deal with me in person. The risk is too great. Have a phone line patched directly to wherever he is, and monitor it around the clock. Get me a cellular phone that someone else pays for. Use Rafael’s new identity to rent an office to use as a safe house in one of the buildings along the river here in Washington. Leave the phone there. I’ll pick it up later. Tell Rafael I’ll reimburse him for all expenses. The same goes for you. I’ll be in touch.”
“Wait! Is this why you’ve been uptight all these years? Why didn’t you ask for help before?”
“I never knew who the informant is. I still don’t. But I know who he isn’t! I’ve got to get around whoever it is, so I need to set up an organization that hasn’t been infiltrated.” He paused, a question forcing its way to the front of his mind. “Burly, did you ever mention a picture that was brought to me in Havana?”
Burly was quiet a moment. “Yeah, I did. I first heard about it from Paul Clary. You shook him up pretty bad when you kept him overnight. Juan told me the story, too. He wondered why the picture wasn’t found by security police when they removed the bodies and Jeeps, and why it looked so new.”
“Did you ever mention it to Sofia Stahl, the secretary who helped refugees at the Swiss Embassy?”
“I might have. I told the story to some people the night of the reception. I think she was in the group.”
Relief swept over Atcho. “Thanks, Burly. I’d better go.”
For a few minutes after Burly hung up, Atcho held the receiver to his ear, pretending to talk while checking for anyone who looked suspicious. Seeing nothing extraordinary, he replaced the receiver, left the booth and merged with passing pedestrians. Soon, he was retracing his steps.
As he ran, Atcho enjoyed a familiar, long forgotten sensation. For the first time since that early period at West Point, he felt a measure of control over his own destiny. He relished the feeling surging through his muscular frame, and his confidence grew that, finally, he could strike back.
38
A month passed. Govorov called to say that the mission had been postponed. “Don’t despair,” he said mockingly. “Your day will come.” After that, as always, he called at regular intervals, late at night. Since the
first phone call from Govorov years ago, Atcho had frantically searched his mind to place the pronunciation of certain words, and slurring of others.
Another month passed, during which Burly and Rafael completed Atcho’s instructions. Having received the key to an office situated near the river, he stopped in during one of his morning runs.
The suite was bare except for a plain desk and chair that had been abandoned by the previous tenants. Its largest office was triangular, with a long point overlooking a marina on the Potomac. On this beautiful, late-spring day, Atcho gazed across the river at pink cherry-blossoms still clinging to the trees that lined the opposite bank. Directly below, sleek vessels of every description bobbed in the water, carrying his mind to a fleeting time he had spent sailing toward the Chesapeake with Sofia. What is she doing now? When Govorov was a distant memory, would she even consider seeing him?
He dismissed the melancholy thought, and carefully checked his surroundings. The peculiar shape of the building allowed excellent observation of every approach. Behind it, and visible from a back window, was a parking lot. Atcho felt satisfaction, and gratitude for Burly’s thoroughness. In this office, he could store needed equipment, or hide for an indefinite time.
The cellular phone was there, inside the desk. Atcho placed calls to both Burly and Rafael. He was pleased to learn that the platoon was organized and ready to move on order. “You’re going to have to trust me,” he told Rafael. “My instructions must be carried out quickly, and without question.”
“Every man fought at the Bay of Pigs,” Rafael responded. “They remember what you did there, and at the prison. When you call, we’ll be ready.”
Atcho gave him Bob and Isabel’s address, and those of Bob’s parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, and anyone else in the immediate family, or important to Bob and Isabel. He instructed Rafael to assign two-man teams to each set of names. They were to learn the local geography so they could move rapidly to their respective sites. Since the locations were spread across the country, Atcho promised as much lead-time as possible.
